Mischief
Name: Mischief Physical Age: 20 True Age: 56 Gender: Male Faction: Sin Element: Chaos This character is now deceased. His death was roleplayed out here. 'Power' Naturally, Mischief bears a good sense of innate accuracy, and since being reborn as a Sin he has a certain degree of accelerated dexterity and speed. Either aspect of the three can be raised above his normal levels temporarily for a certain amount of time. His power enables him to conjure 'dopplegangers' of himself able to function independently to places (arguably including dreams, but as to whether he's attempted it before he doesn't tell) at will. However, the dopplegangers disappear when injured and Mischief suffers the actual wound. He cannot project dopplegangers across overly large distances. 'Weapon' Having fought in several wars, Mischief has a certain degree of experience in most common weaponry, usually bladed weapons and pole arms. He utilizes two black-hilted backswords, each running about 1 and a half foot in length. No stranger to melee combat, Mischief keeps two boot-daggers around him at all times. He owns a pair of spiked knuckle dusters- though it's unknown if he keeps them in his endless pockets. 'Summon' When someone is the embodiment of Mischief, it's not unlikely that his summon would be one capable of tricks and pranks. Mischief's summon is a brown marsh mongoose named Rokitt, with a cheeky disposition and usually up to no good. He has the ability to teleport across certain distances, but usually only does so when his master requires something. Frequently, he's used as message delivery, or Mischief's pillow. He's also adept at performing tricks..obviously. 'History' Orphans were not uncommon in Indafell city. Whether disease, poverty, shame or brutality had claimed their parents, they were all the same in their empty existences, void of attention, meaning or care. Children barely defineable as clothed wandered around the less affluent areas in Indafell. If you were unlucky, you wouldn't last three winters, or you could be picked up by slave traders as cheap labour. If the Gods shone on you, a good Samaritan could find you, and place you in an orphanage, or take you in as one of their own. Sortie Frost had been lucky. Abandoned as a baby, death had spared him and placed him in a small orphanage. He'd earned his odd mishmash of a name partly through the name of the orphanage's owner itself (as was common practice in Indafell, and the children in his orphanage were collectively known as 'the Frost children'), and a nickname a girl had given him one day, that just stuck. He had a habit of playing pranks, or telling jokes, or performing tricks- and spent most of his childhood days on the streets performing little tricks for a little money, before being chased away from one location to the other by city guards. This continued for a while- with the Frost children leading relatively peaceful lives, and as Sortie grew older he worked menial jobs and did everything he could to shed the useless-dumped-child stereotype that dogged many orphan children.He did have a slight habit of pinching small pleasures such as sweets, or a fruit- usually something insignificant. He had never been adopted, having tanned skin and dark hair, with strange gold eyes- childless couples of various dispositions, whether higher-class or lower class frequently overlooked 'the little gipsy boy'. Thusly and inevitably, he was one of the older children left in the orphanage, and would eventually be sent out to earn his own keep. At the age of 17, signs of war was emerging in Indafell- and many orphanages were urged to as many people as possible as soldiers. Sortie was enlisted and placed on the front line, serving for several years. The experiences toughened him, but he did shed a few tears when in the wars, the small village where his orphanage had been was one of many that burned. Gradually it all became routine- when he wasn't needed he would go back to performing little tricks, usually living on the streets, or spending money in inns and taverns. There was the occasional riotous bar fight, the occasional theft- nothing he hadn't been used to. Once in a while he'd get a bit roughed up, or pilfer a cabinet, or pick a rich one's pocket. Other times he'd do some mercenary work, going on a series of unpleasant jobs, as long as they paid well. Essentially, in all means stirring up trouble of all kinds, just to find some form of meaning. Of course, mischief, not unlike misery enjoys company, and a mercenary job one day turned out horribly wrong. A trap. The cheerful, gentle-mannered trickster found himself surrounded by a gang of thugs, hired by someone who he'd caused much damage and trouble for in one of his jobs. It wasn't long before he was disarmed and kicked to the ground, with the last sensations he felt being blades slashing across his entire body, and a resounding crunch as a boot smashed itself into the side of his skull. . . . No way would he let that be the end of his life. 'Appearance' Mischief stands at a height of 6'1" tall, with broad shoulders and his fair share of musculature. Not too lightweight at 160lbs, either. His black hair is kept shaggy and usually unkempt at shoulder's length, with Gea's occasional efforts to run a comb through it rejected with much protest. Mischief's golden eyes are usually a source of fascination, ridicule or the usual whispers of being 'the devil's child'. Ah, Indafell. Mischief's skin is a medium tan, his body crisscrossed with scars from war and the mutilation he suffered prior to his death. Three vertical squares are inked onto his forearm, as was the mark compulsory for those who participated in the war. He is hardly seen out of his usual outfit- a scruffy ivory dress shirt and thick dark-colored pants, usually with the former haphazardly tucked in. He wears a faded black overcoat that stops mid-thigh in cooler weather, usually accessorized with a worn red scarf. A pair of worn leather gloves are perpetually stuffed in a pocket. At all times, he wears heavy black boots. 'Behaviour' \Mischief is your epitome of christmas cheer, hardly seen without a smile on his face. He's the kind of guy you would go down to a bar with and get pissdrunk within 5 minutes of knowing each other, and sing tavern songs into the night. Growing up in an orphanage has given him a very brotherly attitude towards others, usually very mild-mannered, warm and lighthearted in speech. That also makes it difficult to figure out when he's actually being serious. Never having left the prankster part of him behind, he is no stranger to practical jokes, especially enacting them onto any unfortunate victim that comes by. When those he care about are in harm or under threat, he reacts quickly bordering to anger, and has been known to go berserk if his loved ones are hurt or injured. Due to being deaf, he tends to be a bit spacey, usually only focusing on one object or person at a time unless being constantly informed about his surroundings. 'Other' Having his skull smashed in left him permanently deaf, with all sounds becoming nothing more than jumbled whispers to him. Over time he's learnt to lip-read, but occasionally prefers to rely on a pen and bits of paper he keeps in his pockets. He's also all over Gea like a fat kid over a cupcake. Category:Sins Category:Chaos Category:Characters Category:Archived